During our stay in Genoa I came to trust Paolo and his advice. A bachelor by design, he found the invasion of the Garibaldi family a welcome novelty. At the dinner table he often regaled us with tales of his adventures with his brother both during their childhood and as adult merchants exploring South America. To my children he was the entertaining Zio Paolo but behind the laughter and the exaggerated hand gestures, I could see that he missed his brother, who had yet to return to Italy with his family.
I jolted back to attention when the carriage came to an abrupt stop in front of an expansive town house covered with ancient ivy. Striding to the large oak door, I knocked with all my strength. This visit had to go the way I planned; there could be no mistakes. I was ushered into Elisa’s private parlor. Large purple irises bloomed from a crystal vase near the open window. The lace curtains rippled against the burgundy walls.
Elisa entered, her little feet tapping against the terra-cotta tiles. “Mrs. Garibaldi. I am so glad that you called upon me.”
“The pleasure is all mine.” I smiled, doing my best to charm her. “It is so important to hold on to friendship when you are in a new land.”
“You are quite right, madam. Why, I was just remarking to Mrs. Polizzi the other day how pleased I am that you have been welcomed into our little social circle.” She smiled warmly as a servant brought in a tray of espresso and small chocolate cookies. “The Garibaldi family is one of the oldest in all of Genoa. Though they are younger than mine, of course. We Genoan families have a duty to Italy.”
“I couldn’t agree more.” I paused for effect. “Elisa, I was wondering if I could ask you something rather personal.”
“Oh, by all means, Donna Anita, I am an open book, as the saying goes.”
“Does your husband still allow you the freedom to purchase what you please?”
Elisa sipped her espresso from the milk-white teacup trimmed with delicate pink flowers. “Yes, but our recent escapades have caught the attention of the Austrian magistrates. I have been advised to use discretion. I hope you understand, we can’t have the Austrians looking too closely at us.”
“It is completely understandable. No one wants the Austrians at their front door.” I sipped my espresso. Having the attention of the Austrians on us was going to be a problem. I looked over to Elisa. She admired me; it wasn’t a secret. She wanted to hear every story I had. She wanted…“I was only hoping that we could have an adventure, you know, like the kind that I used to have back in South America. I am so homesick.”
She reached a hand out to me. “Of course you are homesick, darling. You are in a strange land. I do hope that my fellow Italians have been kind to you.”
I grasped her extended hand. “Oh yes, you have all been so kind to me. Especially you, Elisa. It’s just that sometimes a woman like myself, well, you see, she needs to stir up a bit of trouble. To feel complete. Do you understand?”
“Oh yes, Mrs. Garibaldi. You have no idea how much I understand. You don’t know how often I imagined that I was the crusader who brought John the Baptist’s ashes here to Genoa. I heard the story so many times that I hoped I could be like him. Live up to my family’s name.” Blond ringlets dangled like earrings as her head tilted to the side. “Did you have an idea in mind?”
I smiled. This was playing out exactly as I wanted. “José’s legion needs weapons. Paolo can obtain them, but we need a generous sponsor to help us. This is where you come in.”
“This sounds like a mischievous bit of fun.” She moved forward in her seat as if I were offering her candy. “I assume you already have a plan?”
“Only the fuzzy outlines of one, really, but I hear the armory makes fabulous gowns,” I said before I took another sip of espresso.
Elisa laughed. “This sounds delightful!”
I made my way home to Paolo’s study. He sat in his high-backed chair, reading a book. I removed my gloves and draped them over the back of the chair opposite him. “What would you say if I told you I had a solution to José’s inventory problem?”
Paolo closed his book with a crisp snap. “I would say that not even you, senhora, are capable of such miracles.”
I picked at my nails. “Well then, perhaps it’s time for me to apply for sainthood.”
Paolo’s book slipped from his hands, bouncing with a series of dull thuds across the floor. “Anita, what have you done?”
“Nothing really, only procured the funding necessary to supply the army with weapons and ammunition.”
“How? I can’t get what he needs without help or without being seen, and no aristocrat is willing to risk being openly aligned with Garibaldi.”
“Not unless said aristocrat has a wife with an expensive dress habit that requires ample funds and the freedom to buy whatever she likes.”
“You mean Elisa Profumo?”
“She’ll pay for the weapons and write in her books that the expense was to a seamstress. Meanwhile we procure whatever my husband needs.”
Paolo sat with his mouth agape. “This is truly a miracle. I’ll place the order right away.”
* * *
June 1848
Three weeks later I walked into the house after a meeting with the ladies of Genoa. As I removed my coat and gloves, I called out, “Paolo! I have new developments to tell you about. Of course, in between all the gossip.” There was an unusual silence.
“Genoan gossip is the stuff of legend.” José’s voice boomed from the doorway in which he leaned. I dropped my gloves and ran to him, wrapping my arms around his waist.
“Tesoro mio.” His voice rumbled in a deep, husky vibration as he burrowed his face into my neck. The woodsy scent of him, the sound of his voice—no other words were needed as he led me upstairs.
Later, as we lay entwined with each other, savoring our reunion, I massaged his wrist. “Tell me, why are you here?”
José’s brow wrinkled as he twisted to look at me. “What do you mean? You aren’t happy to see me?”
“I thought you were doing important work in Milan. I wasn’t expecting you to come here.”
José lay back down. “Milan doesn’t want me.”
“What do you mean it doesn’t want you? Why?” I sat up so I could look at him. “José, what happened?”
José looked away from me, pulling his hand through his hair. “The provincial government decided that they didn’t want my help. They say my style of warfare is barbaric and unbecoming of how an Italian should conduct himself. They feel they can do a better job of keeping Austria at bay without me.”
I gently took him by the chin, turning his face to look at me. “The provincial government of Milan and the aristocracy of Piedmont are ignorant to what a true Italian is. The people of Rio Grande do Sul are better off because of you. Uruguay is independent of Argentina because of you. You are the smartest, most accomplished man I know. The eyes of those men are clouded, and they will learn. Trust me on this, they will learn what happens when they lose faith in the one man who can unite them all under one banner.”
José wrapped his hand around my wrist. “I can do what Machiavelli and the Medicis couldn’t, but these men, they dismiss me like a child.”
“Then husband, make so much noise that they can’t dismiss you.”
José chuckled. “I am already screaming. I can’t yell any louder.”
“What is it that you tell Menotti from that book, The Prince?”
“There is a lot I tell him from The Prince.”
“José, I’m being serious, what’s the quote? The one about how people see you?”
“Everyone sees what you seem to be, few know what you really are.”
“Perhaps it’s time for them to see what I see.” I kissed his forehead. “Make them see the great unifier that I know you are.”
Forty-Eight
September 1848
José stayed with us in Genoa as he reorganized his supplies, new weapons included. He decided it was time for his family to move to his childhood home in Nizza.
There we would stay with his mother while he and his troops gained some much-needed rest.
As we sailed from Genoa, I felt a longing in my heart for the place that was our first home in this new land. Now we were going to live with José’s mother, the loving saint I had heard so much about. My longing gave way to trepidation as a rough image of the woman formed in my imagination.
The port city of Nizza was beautiful with its richly painted homes. The bright houses reminded me of Montevideo. José held Teresita as we sailed into port, lightly bouncing her in his arms. “You’ll be able to see where your papai grew up. Every morning you’ll be able to smell bread from the bakery downstairs and your nonna will give you all kinds of treats.”
José had often spoken of his childhood in Nizza. His father, a successful merchant, had provided for his family of four sons. They had lived in a large second-story flat in the center of town, above a bakery. Every morning the aroma of baking bread rising up from the first floor would wake José. He spoke of his father being a fair, hardworking man. His mother was a gentle, loving woman, attentive, the picture of Italian womanhood.
I took a deep breath, steadying myself as we set anchor. Beyond the palm tree–lined beach, brightly painted buildings with burnt-red tiled roofs stretched out toward the soft rolling hills in the distance. For a moment I felt like I was home in Brazil. José placed a hand on the small of my back and said, “Welcome to Nizza. The most important city in all of Italy, my home.” He moved to the railing, entranced by the coast. “The ancient Greeks named it Nikaia, after the goddess of victory, Nike. Over the years, the French have tried to lure it from us. They even call it Nice. A terrible name in my opinion, but I never seem to agree with the French on anything. “
José’s father had died in his sleep within the first years of his son’s exile in South America. His mother, though, was still alive, her notorious stubbornness defying death. Two of his brothers lived in town, having taken over their father’s merchant business. Mrs. Garibaldi stood at the docks, a stout woman dressed in black. Her blond hair stuck out like straw under her black cap. “Peppino!” she exclaimed, grabbing José by the face and kissing him. “Peppino mio.” She brushed away tears.
She turned to me. “She is so dark! I didn’t expect her to be so dark.”
“Mamma,” José said in an attempt to get her to stop.
Mamma Garibaldi looked up at her son. “Our family has prided itself on not looking like southerners.” She reached up, touching his golden-brown curls. “It is a shame none of your children will have your looks.”
“I think Menotti looks like his father,” I said in defense of my children, feeling an annoyance grow inside me. There was always an implication when someone remarked that a child didn’t look like their father, and I didn’t like the downcast looks Mamma Garibaldi gave my children.
She huffed. “Perhaps if he had been born in Africa.” She looked down at Menotti. “But what can you do when their mother is from South America.” She tsked as she turned from us and started walking.
I looked at José. “I thought you said she was a kind woman.”
José shrugged. “She’ll warm up to you.”
I looked to Mamma Garibaldi, who walked ahead of us, navigating the narrow cobbled streets with the deftness of someone half her age, not caring if we could keep up. I doubted my husband’s words. “I have dinner ready,” she said. “It’s been getting cold. You should have gotten here sooner.”
We followed her up the stairs to the family apartment, which took up the whole floor. “We will have to live like sardines with so many people in our tiny home,” she complained as we entered.
The Garibaldi flat boasted a modest entrance hall, the cream tile gleaming in the evening light. The walls were decorated with paintings of faraway hillsides dotted with wildflowers. Mamma Garibaldi pointed to the left. “That way to the bedrooms. The children will share one room. José, you can have your old room. Anita will have the spare room next to mine.”
“Mother, don’t you mean that Anita and I get our own room?”
“No, I do not. My son will not commit bigamy under my roof,” she said, leading us through a set of double doors into the formal parlor.
I stiffened. After all these years, an ocean away, I still couldn’t escape my past. My grip tightened on Ricciotti as Teresita clung to my skirts. How could I be so foolish? I would never be more than the disobedient girl who never learned her place.
Red blotches appeared on José’s neck and chest. He took me by the elbow and whispered in my ear, “Stay here, let me talk to her.” José led his mother out into the hall while I sat on the light pink couch holding Ricciotti, with Teresita and Menotti on either side of me. Bits of the conversation flowed into the parlor.
“She is my wife!” José yelled. Menotti flinched.
“I have heard the stories. I know what she is. She is married to another man.”
“No, she is not. That man is dead. He died nearly ten years ago!”
Teresita leaned into my arm. I put a hand on her leg as she began to tremble.
“Oh, that is very convenient. I am sure she told you that story once she saw you. The girls always chased you. I only hoped you would not find one so devious.”
Teresita took the liberty of covering her ears and looking up at me.
“She is my wife and the mother of my children! You will show her respect!” Both Menotti and Teresita jumped.
“And I am your mother! Where is my respect?”
I now knew where my husband got his stubborn head from. I handed Ricciotti to Menotti and slipped into the hallway. They both turned to me, red-faced, the same vein on the side of their heads popping up. “José, she is right. This is her house. While we stay here we will be in our separate rooms.”
“Well, at least the woman has some respect. I guess they are not all savages in the Americas.” Mamma Garibaldi stomped away from us.
I grabbed José by the wrist before he went into the parlor. “Promise me that if we are to live in Nizza for an extended time, we will have a house of our own. I will appease your mother, but this cannot be forever.”
He kissed my forehead. “Sì, tesoro mio.”
Mamma Garibaldi showed no interest in discussing the current issues of the day as we sat down to dinner. She sulked at the head of the table, a figure dressed all in black, ignoring our conversation. Silverware clinked against the china as we ate in silence. Before we had even finished with the food, she popped up and cleared the plates from the table. Menotti’s fork was halfway to his mouth when she whisked away his plate. He tried to protest but she ignored him. As the sun began to set, Mamma Garibaldi announced that she was going to bed, leaving us in the parlor in peace.
The furniture in the parlor was nicer than anything we’d ever had in any of our homes. Three delicate vases adorned the coffee table, while a porcelain statue of a maiden desperately clutching her hat against a bitter unseen wind sat on the table next to us. My stomach clenched at the danger these most likely priceless treasures were in with my children in the home.
Menotti curled up in a chair with his latest read, Eighteenth-Century Battles of Europe. He gripped the book with both hands, his face completely covered, the binding crinkling with every page that he turned. José sat on the floor with Teresita and played with dolls while I rested on the couch, slowly swaying from side to side with Ricciotti.
Teresita fell onto her father’s lap. “I hu’gry.”
“Me too,” Menotti said, looking up.
“I’ll see if I can scavenge some food for us,” José said, getting up from the floor and heading into the kitchen.
“Mamãe, do we really have to stay here?” Menotti asked.
“Nonna mean,” Teresita said over the head of her doll.
Mamma Garibaldi was not the pleasant woman my husband had made her out to be. I hoped she would take to the children, but Menotti and Teresita were acutely aware of the anger that emanated from their grandmother.
/> “Shh, don’t speak that way about your grandmother, Teresita.” I turned to Menotti. “We don’t have to stay here for very long. Just long enough so that we can get settled in Nizza. We will have a house of our own very soon.”
José stepped back into the room with a plate of cookies. I could tell he’d heard everything we said. His fake smile, the one that he reserved for the public, was all too plain on his face. “Did you know that this is where I grew up? I was born in this very house.”
“Was Nonna nicer then?” Menotti asked, reaching for a cookie.
“Your grandmother has been living alone for a long time. We are chaos to her. How do you think you would feel if you were her?”
Menotti looked over to Teresita. “I suppose I can kind of see how she feels.”
Teresita shook her head. “Nonna still mean.”
José pulled her onto his lap. “Perhaps, little one, your nonna will soften as she gets to know you.” Teresita wrinkled her face as she reached for another cookie.
That evening after I put the children to bed, I settled into my new bedroom. As I was preparing for bed, José slipped into the room. He wrapped his arms around me as he began to nuzzle my neck. I pushed him away.
“No, my love, not here.” I rested my hand against his face, letting my thumb trace his cheekbone. Life under his mother’s roof would be difficult; she already loathed me and if she caught me with her son, regardless of our marital arrangements, life would be downright unbearable.
“My mother is asleep and what she doesn’t know won’t hurt her. I will be out by morning.” He went in for a kiss, but I stopped him.
“I gave my word.” I didn’t like it here, and I wanted to make sure he didn’t grow comfortable in our new home either.
José pulled away. “Well, we will have to find another way.” He walked back toward the door. “Are you sure you want to let me sleep alone?”
The Woman in Red Page 28